


Swallowed

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Consensual, Detroit Tigers, Drunk Sex, M/M, Tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-10
Updated: 2005-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Brandon Inge tries to get to know the new guy better.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swallowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edgeoflovely](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=edgeoflovely).



> Another old one. Title from the Bush song.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Brandon finally gathers up enough courage to talk to Pudge on the team’s first road trip into Texas, early in May, asks him why he still plays the game. Makes small talk, tries to get to know the future Hall of Famer better. 

Pudge grins. “The girls.” There are remnants of salt clinging to the heel of his hand and his lips are wet with tequila. There’s this hazy not-quite sober glint in his eyes and Brandon wonders if maybe he should just leave Pudge alone. The veteran catcher fits a shriveled wedge of lemon into his mouth and pulls his face into a sour grimace. “What about you?”

“ ’m not good enough to have a nine-to-five,” Brandon says. “Anyway, I can’t imagine doing anything but baseball.”

Pudge extends an arm and dusts his fingers through Brandon’s blond military brush cut. “You can do anything you put your mind to, kid. You’re good enough.” He licks the last bit of salt off his hand and downs his shot of tequila, face pinched.

Brandon dabs some salt onto the heel of his hand and digs his fingers into a little porcelain dish of lemon slices.

“You old enough for a tequila shot, kid?” Pudge teases, slipping the slip of his finger into his mouth, sucking off the salt. His dark eyes focused on Brandon, and Brandon squirms under his gaze.

“Although I may only _look_ twelve, I can handle my tequila.” Brandon licks the salt off his hand and takes his shot, shoves the lemon wedge into his mouth and sucks down hard.

Pudge takes up the shaker of salt and leans forward, hooking his thumb and index finger into the soft cotton collar of Brandon’s t-shirt, licking across the kid’s collarbone. 

Brandon puts up a hand against Pudge’s shoulder. “What are you _doing_?”

“Haven’t you ever done body shots before?” Pudge dusts Brandon’s shoulder with salt.

Brandon shakes his head, his heart jumping up into his throat, Pudge pressing a shot glass into his slippery palm, and he pushes a wedge of lemon into his own mouth, and Brandon has a sickly sweet feeling in his stomach now.

Brandon sucks back the shot of tequila and Pudge fits his mouth over Brandon’s, passing the slice of lemon into his mouth, and Brandon doesn’t remember this being average body shot protocol. But, he supposes, Pudge is the kind of guy who’s allowed to make up his own rules.

Brandon slips the lemon out of his mouth and spits, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Your_ turn.”

Pudge pushes the lemon slice past Brandon’s teeth and runs his tongue over his throat before tossing back his own shot and then darting his tongue into Brandon’s mouth, not even looking for the slice of lemon anymore. It falls out of Brandon’s mouth harmlessly, forgotten for the moment.

Brandon’s senses dulled, he’s vaguely aware of what’s going on now, Pudge’s tongue in his mouth now instead of the lemon and now a hand moving up his thigh. “P-Pudge,” Brandon says, senses blunted, everything sounding loud and magnified in his ears, every sense heightened.

Pudge trails his hand up Brandon’s thigh. “Yes?” he says, softly.

“Y’hand,” Brandon says, swaying in his seat, pressing his fingertips to his temples, trying to will away the pulsing headache thrumming underneath his fingertips. “It’s. It’s.”

Pudge smiles, pulling his lips thin across gleaming white teeth, his dark eyes sparkling under bright, flashing strobe lights. “What is it, Brandon?” he prompts.

Brandon begins to giggle; he can feel it bubbling up in his throat but his brain is too muddled to try to close it off. Brandon wants to cringe at the sound of his own voice; when he’s wasted, his Lynchburg accent comes through loud and clear. Despite all the years in the Midwest, he can slip into it as easily as a pair of slippers. “Hee hee. Pudge. Y’hand. M’thigh. Up. Moving. Hee.”

Pudge tilts his head to the side, smirking openly now. “You’re drunk, you know that? Hombre? You’re _estar borracho_.”

“What?” Brandon squints, slipping off his slick leather barstool, reaching out to grab onto Pudge, his hands curling around Pudge’s knees. He fits his thumb into the hollow of Pudge’s knee, thumbpad pressing against a long, thin scar, the entry wound of arthroscopic knee surgery. He moves his hand from Pudge’s bare knee, looking down, cheeks flushing modestly.

“Looks like I’ll hafta get you back to the hotel, huh?” Pudge slips off his stool, looping a strong arm around Brandon’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. Out of all the players on the team, Pudge is probably the only one Brandon out-heights.

“Looks that way.” Brandon sways into Pudge, rubbing his hip against Pudge’s, reaching up and latching onto his fingers, pulling them apart and then pressing them back together, like a curious child.

“How ’bout we get goin’, then.” Pudge drops some money on the countertop and leads Brandon away.

*

Brandon’s legs aren’t working right, and so he keeps stumbling into Pudge, bumping hips, and tugging on Pudge’s hand, giggling at everything, as Pudge helps him out of the elevator.

“We’re almost there.” Pudge fishes his keycard out of his pocket and lets himself and Brandon into his hotel room, shutting the door behind him, but not before placing a little DO NOT DISTURB placard around the brass knob.

Brandon flops onto one of the beds and Pudge flops right next to him, leaning in and swiping his tongue over a thin strip of still-salted skin curving over the bump of his collarbone.

“Whaddaya doin’?” Brandon mumbles.

“You had a lot to drink,” Pudge says, ticking his fingernails against the buttons down the front of Brandon’s Tommy Bahama shirt. Brandon rolls into him, arms flopping, trying to fit his body tight against Pudge’s.

"Well, so did you," Brandon says, squirreling a hand under Pudge's shirt. He takes extra care in scraping his fingernails over the skin above his heart. Brandon hooks his leg with Pudge's, and fits his mouth against the curve of his throat.

"I know, but you can't handle your liquor an' I can." Pudge grins and scrapes his teeth over a thin exposed strip of Brandon's neck, and lets a hand flutter over the top button on Brandon's jeans.

Brandon arches his hips up into Pudge's hand, and lets out a satisfied little sigh when he feels Pudge's fingers pop the button and tug on the zipper. "C'mon, 'migo, c'mon, hombre."

Pudge smiles and tugs down the zipper all the way, and Brandon happily wriggles out of his jeans, kicking them aside with gusto. Pudge weaves a hand through his hair and pulls him closer, sliding his lips over Brandon's. Brandon can't help but let a giggle escape, as Pudge curls a warm, callused hand around Brandon's cock.

Brandon tilts his head away and Pudge ends up getting a mouthful of his shirt. It tastes like sweat, cigarette smoke, and the faintest hint of cologne. And somehow, beyond that, behind that, rather inexplicably, is the taste of fresh green grass, infield dirt, everything that makes Brandon a successful baseball player, Pudge has always, on some level, been in love with the game, and Brandon _is_ the game.

Pudge flattens his hand over Brandon's heart, and he rolls his head to get a clearer look at him. Pudge brushes his thumb over Brandon's eyelids.

"You gonna fuck me or what?" Brandon asks, eyes heavy-lidded with alcohol and lust, his mouth wet and red, drunken, inviting smile.

"That what you want?" Pudge asks, unbuttoning Brandon's shirt with all deliberate speed, rubbing his hand down his chest, and Brandon grows impatient, reaching up to fumble with the buttons himself.

"Yeah, kinda caught between a rock and a . . . hard place here, pal." Brandon presses his hands against the front of Pudge's pants, outlining his hard form with his palm.

Pudge grins and dips his face into the curve of Brandon's neck, sliding his hands up his side, and Brandon lets out a low moan, pulled from deep within him, riding hard against Pudge's thigh. Brandon lifts Pudge's shirt up and over, letting it drop to the floor, darting forward and fixing his mouth on Pudge's chest, catching his gold cross between his teeth, wafer-thin and hard, constant reminder of the multitude of sins they're currently committing.

Pudge slides his fingers into Brandon's mouth, removing the cross, and Brandon licks the remaining bits of salt off of his fingers. "And what you think I can do for ya?"

Brandon, naked, crushes himself against Pudge's chest and kisses him, exploring the scant space between them with his hands, probing with his tongue, his fingers, reveling in the shudders and gasps of pleasure his ministrations elicit.

Pudge grins and scrapes his teeth against Brandon's throat, smoothing his hands through his hair. He lets a hand slip between them. "Okay then." His smile widens. "Okay."

Brandon arches his back all cat-like, a slow languid smile stretching across his face, and Pudge half-expects him to start purring.

*

Brandon opens one sun-battered, bruised eyelid, and snarls at the sunlight filtering in through the off-white (they were probably once pristine white, but now are just dirty) curtains and rubs a hand down over his chest, scratches at his belly idly. White flakes off at his fingertips and he smiles to himself, flicking them away.

Pudge raises his head from his pillow. "G'morning. Have sweet dreams?"

"Mmhmm." Brandon shifts and rests his head on Pudge's hip, drumming his fingertips over the skin stretched across his jutting hipbone.

"Me too." Pudge fluffs Brandon's hair affectionately.

He nuzzles his cheek against Pudge's hip and pulls the cheap, foam hotel blanket over the two of them. "Got a hangover the size of Montana," Brandon sighs.

"That's not the only thing," Pudge murmurs.

Brandon hits him in the shoulder with his fist. "Shut up."

Pudge slithers on top of Brandon and pushes his face against his shoulder. "Your wish is my command," he laughs, and pulls the covers all the way over their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
